How can it be three weeks?
There are no answers. He left no note, no explanation why that night was the one. No idea what pushed him over the edge. Things had been going well, or so it seemed. In the end I’m left thinking I failed him as a parent. He wasn’t comfortable coming to me with whatever it was that was torturing him. It’s my job to make sure my kids are OK, that they’re safe. I couldn’t protect him from himself. I would have handcuffed myself to him if I had known I needed to. I would have done most anything. I want to reach back in time to the moment I last saw him alive. I think about all the things I would have done and said. And would it have helped? Or would it just have put off the inevitable? I’ll never know. I only know that I feel like a failure.
Grief is a difficult process. Grief layered with a sense of failure takes my breath away.